


guess who

by haleofStilesheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Office, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, Nerd Derek, Office Party, Secret Nerd Derek, Secret Santa, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:05:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: The annual Christmas office party at Hale and Associates Law Firm was one of Stiles’ favorite times of the year.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benaya-trash](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=benaya-trash).



> For the amazing benaya-trash! Merry Christmas!

The annual Christmas office party at Hale and Associates Law Firm was one of Stiles’ favorite times of the year.

He had started at the law firm during his junior year at college, studying both law enforcement and law itself, working part-time as law clerk. He mostly just sat at a desk all day filing paperwork and writing bench memoranda, occasionally delivering subpoenas, but it had nonetheless sparked his love of the law more than anything else ever had except for reruns of Law and Order.

After graduating from Stanford―summa cum laude, thank you very much―he was offered a full-time, dual position at the firm as both a paralegal and an investigator, an offer which he had eagerly accepted. And so, barely a month after receiving his degrees, Stiles took the state exams and became both a certified lawyer and a licensed private investigator, putting all of his education and student debt to good use.

And while he absolutely adored his job, getting to do what he loved every single day for the past four years with a fat paycheck to boot, Stiles’ favorite part of working at the firm was the annual Christmas party. 

Every year almost the entire staff went completely out of their way to decorate the entire office with wreaths and tinsel and everything in between. Overnight, between the evening of November thirtieth and the morning of December first, the whole office was transformed into a veritable winter wonderland.

The reception area was almost unrecognizable, decked out in gold and silver tinsel and red and green Christmas lights, cutouts of snowmen and gift boxes taped to the walls and windows of various offices in the building. Mistletoe was strung up above every last doorway in the building, despite Stiles frequently citing the poisonous plants as a sexual harassment lawsuit just waiting to happen, and boughs of holly bedecked every hallway with bright red bows. 

And every year, a few nights before Christmas, all of the employees, and a handful of guests, gathered at the office to binge themselves on holiday themed desserts and spiked eggnog and exchange their secret Santa gifts. It was a Hale and Associates tradition, one that had been started the year the firm had been established, one that everyone, even their boss the perpetually grumpy Derek Hale, seemed to enjoy.

This year Stiles had arrived a little late, his trusty old Jeep throwing a hissy fit and refusing to start for a solid twenty minutes before finally springing to life, the party already in full swing by the time he got there, jogging into the building to escape the cold northern California weather. He slipped into the breakroom to set his gift down on the counter with the others, making sure the name tag was prominently displayed, sloppily scrawled  _ Derek _ staring back at him, having plucked his boss’ name out of the hat that had been passed around the office in late November.

The first year he had been at the firm he had gotten Kira, a legal secretary who was quite possibly the sweetest, most bubbly person he had ever met, as his giftee. He had gotten her hand-painted ear buds decorated with tiny pink lilies and white dahlias, a new calendar full of cute kittens, and half a dozen gourmet cupcakes from the fancy, then new, bakery down the street from the firm, managing to stay under the office price cap of fifty dollars.

His second year at the firm he had picked Boyd, a junior associate whose stony faced reticence exceeded even Derek’s, out of the hat. Stiles had gotten him a comfy new sweater, a gourmet cookbook, and a game of Bacon-opoly after Boyd’s fiancée had let it slip that Boyd was a huge foodie. 

The previous year, his third at the firm, he had gotten Erica, another junior associate who had immediately become one of his best friends due to her sharp tongue and refusal to back down―both of which made her an amazing lawyer. Stiles had gotten her a macaroni and cheese cookbook to satisfy her love of all kinds of cheese, a wine glass that held an entire bottle, and a custom set of black pens adorned with Beyoncé lyrics engraved in gold.

And of course this year he had gotten Derek.

He had spent weeks debating over what to get him, trying to decide between more humorous and more serious gifts, ultimately deciding on getting him both. Stiles finally settled on a neck tie emblazoned with the silhouette of a howling wolf wearing a Santa hat, a  _ World’s Best Final Boss _ mug, and Superman cufflinks, along with an additional gift that would appeal to Derek’s inner nerd, one that Stiles would give him after the party so as not to embarrass him. 

Letting his eyes linger on the table of gifts, all the same bright red colored gift bag with green tissue paper so as to keep the gifts anonymous, Stiles couldn’t help but wonder who his secret Santa was this year, what he had gotten. 

His first year Isaac, another paralegal with curly golden brown hair and an affinity for scarves, had been his secret Santa. He had gotten Stiles a sarcastic ball―a variation on a magic eight ball that answered every question with sarcastic responses―and Star Wars lightsaber chopsticks which actually lit up bright red.

His second year Laura Hale, Derek’s older sister who was the definition of badass, was his secret Santa. She had gotten him a Deadpool wallet, a silver Batman business card case, and a bisexual flag patterned neck tie―a nod to Stiles’ recent confession about his sexuality.

He had accidentally come out to almost the entire firm after getting drunk in celebration of winning a discrimination lawsuit against a local middle school that had kicked a young bisexual girl and her girlfriend out of the homecoming dance. When Erica had asked why exactly the case had affected him so much, he had dissolved into a blubbering, sobbing mess and blurted out that he was bi. 

Derek had driven him home that night and the next morning Stiles came in to the office to a surprise coming out party they had arranged for him. Turns out he wasn’t the only one in the office who wasn’t straight, far from it in fact.

His third year Peter Hale, Derek and Laura’s maternal uncle whom Stiles could never quite tell if he loved or hated, had picked his name. He had gotten Stiles a bottle of fancy whiskey, expensive cologne, and a box of gourmet chocolates―all of which might have charmed the pants right off of him if Peter wasn’t so creepy.

Stiles had no idea who his secret Santa was this year, Erica and Laura extremely strict on the rules of the gift exchange, making absolute sure it stayed anonymous until the actual gift exchange and the unveiling of whose Secret Santa is whose the night of the Christmas party.

Leaving the breakroom to head into the large conference room they used for the Christmas party, Stiles made a beeline to the long banquet table loaded with food, setting down his tray of chocolate Rugelach and cherry Hamantaschen besides a plate of caramel brownies, always a fan of adding a smidge of Hanukkah flair to the Christmas party. He paused to pop one of Erica’s famous cream puffs into his mouth before turning to grab a red solo cup of eggnog, accepting the Santa hat Isaac handed him. 

It was another office tradition. When at the Christmas party one you wore a Santa hat. No ifs, ands, or buts. Even Derek wore one, wary of incurring the wrath of his sister.

It was also customary to wear something Christmas-y―and yes, according to Erica that was a word and no one was willing to fight her on it―ranging from holiday t-shirts and sweaters to full on Santa suits and elf costumes. This year Stiles had just worn his work suit, too busy baking for most of the day to run out and grab a new t-shirt, deeming his  _ kiss me under the mistletoe _ t-shirt with the arrow pointing downward to his groin a little too inappropriate for an office party with his coworkers and superiors.

Setting his cup of eggnog down for a moment, Stiles tugged the Santa hat on over his disheveled hair, greeting Isaac who was wearing the  _ ugliest  _ Christmas sweater Stiles had ever seen. It was a garish amalgamation of red and green with flashing lights and tinsel knitted into the sweater itself, the words  _ ho ho ho _ emblazoned in white lights.

“Ooh! Is that Rugelach?” Isaac asked curiously, raising up on his tiptoes and peering over his shoulder at the tray of desserts. “The chocolate one?”

“Yup,” Stiles confirmed, picking up his cup of eggnog and taking a long sip. Laura had really outdone herself this year, the eggnog a perfect blend of rich, cinnamony cream and heady bourbon. “And I made extra this time. I remember what happened last year.”

Isaac flushed, clearly remembering last year when he had eaten almost all of the Rugelach, cheeks stuffed full of chocolatey goodness as he mumbled about converting to Judaism, and patted Stiles on the shoulder before grabbing a plate of Rugelach and disappearing into the crowd, presumably to go find Allison. Stiles snorted into his cup, scanning the room to see who was in attendance.

He recognized a few receptionists and secretaries, a handful of plus ones and guests, unfamiliar faces mixed in with a sea of his coworkers’. He spotted Peter by his office doorway with a few middle aged men in expensive suits, business associates no doubt.

Erica, who was dressed in a garish light green elf costume trimmed in red, and Boyd, who was wearing a red sweater with white snowflakes, were lingering by a table of drinks, Erica’s finger lazily tracing hearts onto the back of Boyd’s hand, their engagement rings glinting under the bright fluorescent lights. Laura, who was wearing a festive dark red dress with white faux fur trim, was laughing with Kira, also in an elf costume, by the mini Christmas tree in the corner.

And of course, standing with his back against the wall nursing a bottle of beer in his black work suit with a Santa hat perched precariously on his head, was Derek. Ever the life of the party.

Figuring the big lug could use some company, Stiles quickly set about making a plate of finger food to share with him, grabbing a handful of pigs in a blanket, some toasted raviolis, a few cocktail meatballs, and some fried mozzarella balls, trying to think of what Derek might like. He turned on his heel to cross the room only to promptly bump into someone, nearly spilling his cup of eggnog all over the guy’s fancy suit. 

“Shit!” Stiles hissed, pulling his cup back just in time to avoid ruining the other man’s silver tie. Looking up to meet the man’s steely blue eyes, Stiles hurriedly apologized, “Sorry, man.”

“No need to apologize,” the man assured him, a subtle English accent in his gravelly, honeyed voice, grinning down at Stiles with a polite smile. Smoothing his suit out with the palm of his hand, he countered, “It was entirely my fault. I must admit I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going.”

“It’s my fault, too,” Stiles admitted, setting his cup of eggnog down to scratch the back of his  head. “I should’ve watched where I was going. My bad, dude.”

“Oh, goodness. Where are my manners?” The man chided himself with a small chuckle, offering Stiles his hand. “I’m Deucalion. I’m a friend of Peter’s.”

“I’m Stiles. I’m a paralegal here at the firm,” Stiles introduced, accepting Deucalion’s hand to shake it. But to his surprise, Deucalion didn’t shake his hand, he simply turned it over and raised it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of his palm.

Stiles could feel a warm flush break out over his face, cheeks hot as Deucalion’s lips brushed against the thin skin of his hand. He tried not to squirm under the unprecedented attention as Deucalion raised his head and released his hand, grinning down at him.

“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” Deucalion remarked, reaching into his breast pocket to produce a business which he offered to Stiles. “But I would very much appreciate it if you would perhaps call me sometime. My cellphone number’s on the back.”

Stiles nodded, slipping the card into his back pocket, smiling up at Deucalion who nodded himself and moved out of his way. Shrugging to himself, Stiles picked up his cup of eggnog and continued on his way across the room with an extra bit of pep in his step.

“Hey, boss,” he greeted, leaning back against the wall to Derek’s left, popping a cocktail meatball into his mouth. He his plate up towards Derek, asking around a mouthful of meat, “Pig in a blanket?”

Derek grabbed a toasted ravioli instead, biting into it with a small crunch. Stiles turned to smile at him only to see a firm scowl darkening Derek’s handsome features. He looked mad. Madder than last year when Heather, one of the receptionists, had gotten drunk and kissed Stiles under the mistletoe barely a moment after he had arrived at the party.

Derek had claimed that it was irresponsible for Heather to have gotten so drunk, that it was grounds for a sexual harassment suit if Stiles wanted to press charges, that it wasn’t very smart for coworkers to get involved with one another, when Stiles had asked why he was so upset about it. Yet he hadn’t said a single negative word when Boyd and Erica had announced their engagement, instead volunteering to help pay for the wedding.

Stiles had shrugged it off as one of Derek’s eccentricities and moved on. Now, however, he was tempted to probe, “What’s up, big guy? You look like someone died―” he paused, eyes widening “―oh my god, did someone die?!”

Derek shook his head, taking a sip of his beer, raising a brow at the urgency in Stiles’ voice. Shifting his weight to his other foot, he mumbled against the lip of his beer bottle, “Él es un jodido culo.”

A sudden flash of white-hot arousal jolted through him at the words, having no idea whatsoever what Derek had just said but desperately wanting to hear him say it again. Slower and softer and preferably in his ear while he laid on top of him in bed and  _ wow! _ That train of thought was leading him down a dark and dangerous path.

Stiles knew it wasn’t very smart, or very professional for that matter, to have a crush on his boss, especially one that was seven years his senior. And yet there he was, four years deep into an unrequited infatuation, trying not to drool all over himself as Derek spoke fluent Spanish.  _ Nice going, Stilinski. _

“Uh, sorry,” Stiles mumbled after a moment, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck as his cheeks flushed bright red again. “I always forget you’re multilingual. What’d you just say?”

“He’s a fucking ass,” Derek relayed, dabbing his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“Who is?” Stiles asked, looking around the room for any obvious assholes. But in a room of lawyers it was hard to pinpoint just one. 

“Deucalion,” Derek grunted, plucking a cocktail meatball off Stiles’ plate. He nodded his chin at Deucalion who was across the room with Peter, both men laughing together, the sight of Deucalion making Stiles heart race. “He’s a defense attorney. Spends most of his time getting murderers off scot-free. Spends the rest of it schmoozing everyone.”

“Ugh. Defense attorney, huh?” Stiles sneered, wrinkling his nose. He tugged Deucalion’s business card out of his pocket, crumbling it up and tossing it into the nearby trash can. “Guess I won’t be needing that, then.”

“You were gonna call him?” Derek asked incredulously, turning his head to the side so sharpy Stiles was pretty sure  _ he _ had gotten whiplash.

Stiles shrugged. He looked down at his plate, awkwardly picked at a pig in a blanket. “I dunno. Maybe―” he turned to look over at Derek “―Is that unprofessional?”

“Well, he doesn’t work in our firm,” Derek observed, grabbing another meatball and stuffing it into his mouth. “Not violating any office rules.”

If Stiles didn’t know any better he would say Derek sounded almost bitter about the prospect of office conduct codes impeding any romantic interpersonal affairs. But after working with the man for four years Stiles was pretty sure he knew better.

“Eh,” Stiles shrugged again. “He’s kind of a douche. Can’t really say that’s my type.”

Sarcastic and witty, yes. Douche-y, not so much. That was why he was head over heels for Derek and not his uncles.

“No?” Derek asked, head tilted to the side like a curious puppy. He grabbed a pig in a blanket, popping it into his mouth as he casually inquired, “What’s your type, then?”

“Huh,” Stiles mumbled, leaning his head back against the wall, peering up at the ceiling. “To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it. Not even really sure I  _ have _ a type. I just know he’s not it.”

Now that he thought about it, he had to reconsider. He thought he might actually have a type. Just maybe. And it was best summed up in two words: Derek Hale.

With his thick black hair and immaculate stubble and gorgeous hazel eyes, he was easily the most beautiful person Stiles had ever met. And with his kindness and generosity and intelligence and biting sarcasm, he was basically catnip to Stiles. Stiles-nip if you would.

But of course he couldn’t say that out loud. And certainly not to the man who was both his boss and the object of his affections.

“Too old?” Derek inquired, fiddling with the label on his beer, scraping his thumbnail over the plastic until it began to peel.

Stiles considered that, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Yes, Deucalion was older than him, looking to be around his mid to late thirties, maybe his early forties, but he couldn’t say that fact alone was too off putting. 

“Nah. Age doesn’t really bother me,” Stiles claimed. “I mean, yeah he’s like twenty years older than me but why does that matter? That’s not why I’m not gonna call him. He’s a creep. That has nothing to do with his age.”

“He’s rich,” Derek reported, taking another sip of his beer.

“Oh, shit. Lemme grab that,” Stiles joked, feigning like he was going to grab the business card out of the trash can. Sobering, he grit out, “I’m not a gold digger, Derek. I don’t give a shit if he has money.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Derek frantically assured, eyebrows climbing up to his hairline as he launched into damage control. “I just… Financial stability is important in a relationship.”

“Yeah, well so is chemistry and mutual attraction,” Stiles snorted. “And that matters a hell of a lot more than the size of his wallet.”

Stiles took a deep breath to calm himself down, not exactly sure why he had gotten so incensed about Derek’s poorly worded comment. A lifetime of people looking down their noses at him leaving him with a chip on his shoulder and an inexplicable need to prove himself to Derek culminating in the perfect storm for misplaced offense.

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about you leaving the firm to go be some glitzy Fifth avenue lawyer’s trophy husband,” Derek joked, tossing another ravioli into his mouth with a crisp crunch, turning his head to smirk down at Stiles who cracked a smile. “Hate to lose my―our best paralegal.”

“Careful, big guy,” Stiles warned, playfully elbowing Derek’s arm. “Don’t wanna hurt Isaac’s feelings, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Derek laughed, throwing his head back as he chuckled deeply. “I’d hate for him to have give us his puppy dog eyes.”

“Ugh, not the puppy dog eyes!” Stiles groaned, lips turning up at the corners as they laughed together. Finishing his cup of eggnog, Stiles wheezed, “Where the hell did he even learn that?”

“Lassie,” Derek deadpanned, sending Stiles into another fit of laughter, pressing his forehead against Derek’s shoulder as he shook with the force of his laughter, nearly dropping his plate of food. 

Their laughing was interrupted by Erica cupping her hands around her mouth and announcing, “Alright, guys! Secret Santa time!”

“Guess that’s our cue,” Derek pointed out, running a hand through his hair as Stiles tossed his empty cup, offering Stiles his arm.

Stiles linked their arms together, snorting, “Lead the way, boss.”

* * * * * * *

A few hours later, after all the secret Santa gifts had been exchanged and the bowl of spiked eggnog was reduced to a few scant drops, the party finally dwindled down, only three people were left at the party, Derek and Stiles staying behind to clean up while Isaac lay passed out on the table in the conference room after one too many cups of the aforementioned eggnog. 

“Thanks again for helping out with the cleanup,” Derek said for about the fifth time in the past half hour as he and Stiles tossed empty red solo cups into trash bags, wiping down tables and cleaning up spills off the floor. 

Stiles just rolled his eyes and tossed a wad of soiled napkins into a trash bag. “No problem, big guy. Figured it’s only fair if someone else cleans up this mess, too. Besides, how else am I gonna get a raise if I don’t brownnose a little?”

He punctuated his comment with a wink that made Derek duck his chin and laugh as he scrubbed a spot of sticky, dried beer off the table, Stiles puffing his chest out at the small blush coloring his boss’ cheeks. “You don’t need to brownnose to get a raise, Stiles. You know we always give a holiday bonus.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Stiles snorted, moving on to grab an empty tray off the table to shuck into the bag. “But how else am I gonna get first dibs at all the leftovers?”

He already had two trays of everything from pie to tarts to cream puffs in his Jeep, using his run to the vehicle to grab Derek’s additional gift, putting it on Derek’s desk before rushing back to the conference room to help him clean up. They were both mindful to not wake Isaac who was snoring like a chainsaw, his left arm dangling off the side of the table, a penis drawn on his cheek in Sharpie courtesy of Erica.

Once they finished in the conference room, Stiles took Derek by the arm and tugged him towards his office, announcing, “C’mon, I have something for you.”

“You already gave me your secret Santa gift,” Derek pointed out, furrowing his brow in confusion as he obediently followed Stiles down the hallway. 

“Yeah, I know. This is something else,” Stiles explained vaguely, ushering Derek into his own office, pointing out the leather couch in the corner where Derek promptly sat down. Stiles turned to grab the gift bag off Derek’s desk, handing it to Derek with jazz hands and a bright, “Ta da!”

Derek cocked a brow but reached into the bag nonetheless, lifting out the pile of books inside. His jaw dropped as he read over the titles of the books― _ Dinner With Mr. Darcy, Tequila Mockingbird, the Unofficial Harry Potter Cookbook _ ―Stiles having gotten him a collection of literary themed cookbooks, featuring all types of recipes from hundreds of books, both classic and contemporary.

“So…? Do you like em?” Stiles asked, taking a seat beside Derek on the couch, eagerly anticipating his reaction. “I know how much of a closet nerd you are, so I thought like em.”

“I do,” Derek said, face splitting into a wide grin as he turned to smile at Stiles. He hesitated a moment, smile falling from his face in the dim light of his office. In a low, husky voice, he murmured, “This probably isn’t a good idea, but I don’t care anymore.”

Before Stiles could ask what he was talking about, Derek’s lips were on his. Stiles gasped in surprise, giving Derek a perfect opportunity to deepen the kiss, winding his arms around Stiles’ shoulders and gently pulling him closer. Stiles whined and surged up into the kiss, wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck and returning the kiss with as much fervor as he could muster, all of his fantasies of the last four years coming to life.

Besides, they were under the mistletoe.


End file.
